


but it's fun to fantasize

by orphan_account



Series: redemption's not that far and darkness is going down [3]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he could fall through the floor, into the earth, and just stay there - that would be best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but it's fun to fantasize

**Author's Note:**

> This is 500 words of suicidal thoughts, so. Proceed with caution. I'm relying on fic as therapy pretty heavily, I guess. Title from 'Ride'.

Tyler doesn’t want to kill himself. He’s not that kind of depressed. He has troubles, sure, and they keep him up at night. His chest feels like it’s going to cave in from the weight of it all, but he doesn’t want to kill himself. He just doesn’t care much whether he lives.  
  
He thinks about it every so often. A few years ago he’d decided that cutting the jugular would be the fastest way, albeit a bit of a mess. He doesn’t like the idea of being an inconvenience, even after he’s dead.  
  
Hypothermia would be difficult to engineer, but falling asleep sounds like a nice way to go. Of course, if he could just be _gone_ \- that would be best. It would be the easiest.  
  
His family worries about him, he knows. But most of the time he doesn’t even have to put on a mask to keep them from worrying. Things aren’t all that bad. They’ve been worse.  
  
Josh worries about him, too. This rankles more - he doesn’t want to be a responsibility. But somehow he’s become one. He’s become Josh’s mess to take care of on bad days, and he hates it.  
  
If he could fall through the floor, into the earth, and just stay there - that would be best.  
  
He feels so ungrateful. God, immensely ungrateful. All of these things in his life going better than most could hope for, all the things he’s been able to make. He’s blessed, and yet. And so. Things aren’t all that bad. They’ve been worse.  
  
Worse was the night he walked to his old middle school and spent hours on the steps, looking up at the sky. He’d tried to talk to someone, anyone. But he couldn’t say anything, not even to himself. The weight in his chest turned his tongue into lead and his breath into some shallow panting thing. A rabbit, desperate, eyes darting for an escape route.  
  
That night, he thought _I can’t live like this. I can’t even speak. I can’t tell anyone anything - how can I make a difference if I can’t say a word. What’s the point, what’s my point, if I’m silent?_  
  
He thinks that a lot. His tongue is heavy too often; his breath falters too frequently.  
  
He’s carrying this weight, this heavy weight that he would do anything to get rid of. Is it his cross to bear? Is it his own fault? Why can’t he breathe like a person? Why can’t he speak?  
  
It feels like being submerged under water. Life filters through to him, hazy, hard to parse in a way that makes it not worth parsing.  
  
_Have I ever done anything that matters? Anything that makes me worth something?_  
  
He can’t quite tell Josh. Not all of it, not the worst. He’ll ramble, wonder if he’s really impacting people the way he wants. If he ever will. But he can’t bring himself to say what’s always on his mind: _Wouldn’t it be easier? To be gone?_  
  
And more importantly: _Would you forgive me if I did go?_  
  
  



End file.
